For she was rich, and gave up all To break the iron bands Of those who waited in her hall, Long since beyond the Southern Sea While she, in meek humility, It is their prayers, which never cease, Their blessing is the light of peace THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp The hunted Negro lay ; He saw the fire of the midnight camp, Where will-o'-the-wisps and glowworms shine, In bulrush and in brake; Where waving mosses shroud the pine, And the cedar grows, and the poisonous vine Is spotted like the snake; Where hardly a human foot could pass, On the quaking turf of the green morass A poor old slave, infirm and lame; Great scars deformed his face; On his forehead he bore the brand of shame, And the rags, that hid his mangled frame, Were the livery of disgrace. All things above were bright and fair, Lithe squirrels darted here and there, |